Faramir
by OUATLovr
Summary: Denethor's final thoughts, as he roasts upon the pyre.


Faramir

For Denethor, Boromir was easy to love. He was nothing like her, and therefore there was no pain associated with him every time Denethor happened a glance in his direction. He was much like Denethor himself had been at that age; strong, stubborn, and fierce when he wished to be. Though, he was far more courageous. That was why Denethor believed in him. He knew that the boy would succeed in life as he had, knew he would win the hearts of his soldiers and the people of Gondor, and would always be respected by the other nations of men.

Faramir was different. He had always been so, ever since he was a child. He was lithe, preferred reading the scrolls in the library with that wizard Gandalf rather than spending his time training to be the warrior Gondor needed, and what little confidence he had could be tested and melted at a mere look from his father.

But none of those reasons were why Denethor shoved him aside so roughly every time the boy attempted to win his approval or chanced an accomplishment in the battlefield worthy of Boromir. It was not why Denethor hardened himself against the boy, and never felt pride in his deeds. No, whenever Denethor glanced at his youngest son, all he felt was pain.

Pain at her loss, for while every inch of Boromir, except perchance his courage, could be traced to his father, every aspect of Faramir was his mother's. And it was not just the physical appearance of Faramir that reminded him so much of the late Stewardess of Gondor; the slight build that had been the death of her in the end, or the auburn curls that framed their faces, nor even the calm eyes they shared, wise, but pained beyond their years. It was the gentle way he spoke, the inquisitive gaze that caught everything. The love of learning, encouraged by that fool Gandalf.

In another life, Faramir would have made a great scholar, but alas, it was not to be.

It was in his unrivaled compassion for all those around him, where Borormir cared not who suffered because of words spoken in malice.

Denethor saw her in the way Faramir laughed, however seldom that was, or the way tears slipped down his alabaster cheeks in the same silent way they had hers, only more often. He saw her when Faramir never complained, no matter how hard Denethor worked to make him do so, only wishing to please.

He only wished that, once and a while, his son had fought back, had stood up for himself even if it meant disagreeing with his father. It was such a disappointment to have a weakling for a son.

And finally, he saw his beloved, dead wife in the style in which his youngest son fought; silent but with a quiet determination that couldn't possibly have belonged to Denethor. Saddened by the deaths he caused but no less willing to fight for his kingdom as Boromir did, but more, Denethor suspected, for his father.

The boy had hardly known his mother, and therefore could not comprehend a reason for Denethor to be so cold towards him, though Boromir had certainly guessed it long ago. Denethor knew that his favoritism towards his eldest son was costing him the love of both, but there was not time to change his ways, not anymore.

But then Boromir had been cruelly taken from him as well. The one child he had never pushed away because he'd never had the worry of losing the boy. For Boromir was strong since his youth and had never once failed his father.

Every time Denethor had grown close to Faramir, despite his mind's frequent insisting that it was foolish to do so, he would be almost fond of the boy only to have all of his fondness torn away when Faramir was nearly killed, spending weeks in the House of Healing. Looking as sickly as she had on her deathbed. Denethor could not lose her again, and so he would push the lad away once more.

It unnerved Denethor to see these similarities between his wife and his youngest son, but they were not the reasons for Faramir's shunning, for the angry way that Denethor turned from everything Faramir accomplished with a sneer, whilst heaping praise upon his eldest son.

At night, when Denethor shut himself away in his chambers and pulled out the Palantir, the great Seeing Stone that had been discovered while he was Steward, and placed his hand upon it, he saw all the Great Evils of the world. He saw what the Eye had planned for Gondor, and the kingdoms surrounding it, and Denethor shook with fear.

And he realized in those moments, when he shook like a coward, bending to the Will of the Eye, what really bothered him about his youngest son.

He had thought that, if Faramir could just act like Boromir, then perhaps his father could find it within himself to look past everything that his son had become- everything that he now realized was his fault- and see his youngest child for the gem that he was.

And when Boromir had died, Faramir came to the realization of what his father had always wanted from him. He became saddened by the epiphany that came with finding his brother's horn, but in his desire to please the Steward of Gondor, had done as Boromir would have done.

But Denethor found that when the boy finally attempted to be Boromir for his father, only after the death of the son Denethor had loved so much, it was not what he wanted.

It was only in his last moments, as the pain burned through his skin and forced the palantir's grip from his mind that he gazed upon his youngest son and knew these things.

If only he could have realized this before the pyre caught fire.


End file.
